Yes, dreaming.

I said I had but one treasure left,' he continued, with a fierce sort of tenderness that was peculiar to him: 'and I did not mean to tell you, but I will.

Look at that, Miss Lily, 'tis the little rose you left on your harpsichord this morning.

I stole it: 'tis mine; and Richard Devereux would die rather than lose it to another.' So then, after all, he had been at the Elms; and she had wronged him.
'Yes, dreaming,' he continued, in his old manner; 'and 'tis time I were awake, awake and on the march.' 'You are then really going ?' she said, so that no one would have guessed how strangely she felt at that moment.
'Yes, really going,' he said, quite in his own way; 'Over the hills and far away; and so, I know, you'll first wish your old friend God speed.' 'I do, indeed.' 'And then you'll shake hands, Miss Lily, as in old times.' And out came the frank little hand, and he looked on it, with a darkling smile, as it lay in his own sinewy but slender grasp; and she said with a smile--'Good-bye.' She was frightened lest he should possibly say more than she knew how to answer.
'And somehow it seems to me, I have a great deal to say.' 'And I've a great deal to read, you see;' and she just stirred old Miss Wardle's letter, that lay open in her hand, with a smile just the least in the world of comic distress.
'A great deal,' he said.
'And farewell, again,' said Lilias.
'Farewell! dear Miss Lily.' And then, he just looked his old strange look upon her; and he went: and she dropped her eyes upon the letter.

He had got into the far meadow, where the path makes a little turn round the clump of poplars, and hides itself.